


I Hardly Know Which Way Is Up

by PollyPocalypse



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Possession, After the bus ride, Bodyswap, Crowley is nice in an insistently not-nice sort of way, Every David Tennant character I write has to have at least one fast-talking monologue this I decree, Fluff, Heaven is that crappy workplace that you can only mouth off about once you've left, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Apocalypse, gratuitous cultural references, or crappy birth family if you prefer, this will rot your teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 11:10:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20581547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PollyPocalypse/pseuds/PollyPocalypse
Summary: Love isn't kind, although it has been fairly patient.Or: How they came up with the bodyswap idea.





	I Hardly Know Which Way Is Up

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my lovely beta reader IneffableSoulmates / IAmJohnlocked4Life
> 
> Title is nabbed from the Crowded House song "I Feel Possessed", which seemed to fit reasonably well.

The bus ride home is silent, for the most part.

It’s a silence that somehow manages to be companionable and oddly strained at the same time. Crowley glances out of the window at the world. Still here, more-or-less intact. It’ll take a while to properly take it in. 

To be frank, he’s still having trouble believing they got away with it. Feels like any moment the rug’s going to be pulled out from under them, that the world will fall apart around them like a poorly-constructed card tower. 

But it doesn’t happen. The world steadfastly stays where it is, sturdy as anything, all present and correct. 

He wonders how long he could’ve managed on Alpha Centauri. 

He’s distracted by Aziraphale’s hand suddenly coming to rest on his thigh. 

It’s a gentle touch, but unmistakably deliberate. Crowley feels it all the way through his useless, backstabbing human body and it causes something in his brain to short-circuit. 

A small touch, but of course, Crowley of all individuals knows about the potential of small things. Cause one minor annoyance to a few people and induce a tarnishing of humanity's collective souls that'll reach hundreds, thousands maybe. A little accidental sleight-of-hand involving babies and suddenly you're all in a whole world of trouble. One sentence, in a tone that manages to be both sheepish and defiant all at once: _I gave it away!_ and you're in love, just like that. 

When he thinks back, surprisingly enough, the influx of romantic love in itself hadn’t bothered him a great deal, not once he’d got used to it (and Satan knew, he’d had a great deal of time to get used to it). Oh, it wasn’t _convenient,_ and certainly not in the job description, and it wouldn’t have gone down at all well with the higher-ups (that is to say, lower-downs) had they ever found out about it. 

And in love with an _angel,_ to boot. With bow-ties and dainty mannerisms and terribly out-of-date vocabulary. In love with that occasional faint look of disdain that would flutter across Aziraphale’s face when he recounted tales of Heaven’s other denizens. Crowley doesn’t think he realises he does it. 

But as long as he keeps it to himself, it’s fine. He repeats this to himself as the need arises. It’s fine. He’s fine. He could deal with the rejection, too. That whole business at the bandstand; the tiff at the duckpond all those decades ago. _You go too fast for me, Crowley._ Over and over again he’s pushed away and it never makes him fall out of love. It’s infuriatingly resilient. 

Would he stop, though, given the option? 

No. No, probably not, silly git that he is. He’s in too deep. 

He holds himself absolutely still, a difficult task for a creature used to ostentatiously loafing about on any available surface. He wants to lean into the touch (point of fact, what he really wants to do is draw Aziraphale in close, rearrange their positions so they're curled in on each other, press his lips to Aziraphale's hair. It's part protective instinct - the flaming bookshop still fresh in his memory - and part plain old common-or-garden desire. But leaning in would be a nice start). Instead, he keeps himself stiffly, uncomfortably still. 

It's a subtle, exquisite form of torture that should by all rights make Crowley proud. He wonders briefly whether the angel has some sort of untapped knack. 

Then Aziraphale, still without saying a word, sighs and rests his head against Crowley’s shoulder. 

They stay in that position for a good while, Crowley hardly daring to move, until eventually the bus takes a sharp turn and Aziraphale sits upright again, gazing steadfastly out of the window. 

He keeps his hand where it is. 

* * * 

Crowley doesn’t have a guest bedroom. This shouldn’t matter, since Aziraphale isn’t in the habit of sleeping, although Crowley knows for a fact that he keeps one in the bookshop (he’s conked out on it himself once or twice after a night of heavy drinking). 

He contemplates miracling one up. Aziraphale looks incongruous in Crowley’s slick minimalist surroundings; he’d be comfortable with something more embellished and old-timey. Crowley could do him something with a pile of embroidered pillows and one of those squashy old-fashioned eiderdowns. Maybe even a canopy. He’d like that. 

“Want anything?” Crowley thinks to ask, as Aziraphale follows him into the living room. “A nightcap? I’ve got some good talisker, real vintage stuff, never been opened…” he trails off rather helplessly. 

“I don’t feel like it. Not at the moment, thank you all the same.” 

Aziraphale remains standing, skittish, his hands fidgeting absent-mindedly, refusing to meet Crowley’s eyes. 

“It’s kind of you, letting me stay here,” he tells the floor. 

For a second or so Crowley thinks about rebuking him for that. (He still has some professional pride, after all.) But Aziraphale looks so unhappy, so out-of-sorts, that Crowley doesn’t have much control over what comes out of his mouth instead. 

“Sorry I couldn’t save your books this time.” 

Aziraphale does look up, then, and his face is doing something complicated. 

“Oh, my dear,” his voice quavers. “I’m so sorry.” 

Crowley barely has any time to be nonplussed at the non-sequitur because suddenly Aziraphale’s lips are pressed, softly and hesitantly, to the corner of his mouth. 

It’s over far too soon and Aziraphale steps back, quickly, looking a little shocked at his own boldness. 

Crowley tries to say something, but it comes out as a strangled, incomprehensible noise. He tries again, but all he can manage this time is an oddly high-pitched “What?” which isn’t much better. 

“Er.” Aziraphale looks at him wide-eyed. “Was that wrong?” 

“No.” That response is almost reflexive. “No. Not wrong. Just didn’t think. You were. Didn’t think you. Did.” 

“Only,” Aziraphale steps in again, nervously reaching for Crowley’s arm. “You weren’t wrong, were you? When you told me we were on our own side. And, well. It’s not that I didn’t _want_ to go off with you. I do hope you know that, Crowley.” He sighs. “This was supposed to be so much more articulate. I was going to give you a lovely grand speech and say all the things I’ve been wanting to say. But there’s so much…” 

They stand in suspension for a few seconds, both of them a little afraid that if they acknowledge what’s going on it’ll all fall apart. Aziraphale’s hand absent-mindedly worries the fabric of Crowley’s sleeve, before he leans in again, giving him a brief look to ask for permission before kissing him painfully softly on the lips this time. 

Crowley lets him, for a while, before pulling back a little. “Wait,” he says. “Just.” 

“Hmm?” 

“You’re not just… trying this on for size, are you?” He can hear the pleading whine that’s got into his voice, but he’s not in much of a position to do anything about it. “Only, if you’re going to change your mind-” 

“No, my love. No, that won’t be happening.” 

Aziraphale pushes a stray lock of hair out of Crowley’s face. 

“I know I’ve made you wait a great deal, but I’d like to, perhaps, go a little way towards compensating for that, now. If you’ll let me. And… well, it’s new, and frankly I’m a little terrified, but you don’t need to worry, Crowley. I don’t think I have it in me to send you away again. Not now.” 

Crowley nods, something stuck in his throat. Aziraphale leans in to kiss him again. 

Crowley can’t react. His brain hasn’t fully got around to processing what’s happening yet. Six thousand years. Six thousand years of desiring the damn angel and now he’s being kissed he can’t even sodding well react to it properly. 

Aziraphale pulls away again. Looks at Crowley with a dazed sort of wonder. “You were always kind to me,” he murmurs pensively. “And they-” He shakes his head, cutting himself off. 

“Should take you to task for that,” Crowley mutters hazily. “Calling me kind.” 

“You did just save the world.” 

“That was a group effort. Besides-” he flounders, trying to come up with some glib remark - “Besides, all my stuff was in it.” 

“Well, you’re kind to me. You saved my books that other time, and-” 

“Because I love you. Doesn’t even count.” 

He reckons this is probably allowed, if they’re on kissing terms now. On this night, when the world is saved, but the danger of repercussions still hangs over their heads, on this night he reckons that all bets are off. 

“Oh, Crowley…” 

“And don’t think you’re going to get me with that one. It’s not _kind_ of me to love you. Don’t you dare bloody well act like I’m doing you a favour. Being kind takes _effort._ Do you have any idea how easy it was to fall in love with you? I managed it on the first _day._ _Whole_ different kettle of fish. And romantic love’s a disaster, really; gets people into a whole world of trouble. Look at that Helen of Troy business. And oh, oh - let’s just make this _completely_ clear: I don’t love you because you’re imbued with heavenly goodness or whatever you want to call it. I love you because you’re different. I love you because you give away flaming swords and go against orders and… and. Because you’re weirdly over-enthusiastic about food. You wandered off to France during the revolution and got yourself imprisoned because you were peckish. You’re ridiculous. I love that. Because of _you_ and the things you say and that face you make when I do stuff for you and… oh, whatever soppy ethereal stuff makes people fall in love with each other. Even if we’re not people. Never mind. Technicalities. The point is, I _don’t_ love you for some noble heavenly reason so don’t think you can catch me out that way, and that’s not me being _nice,_ it’s me being _accurate._” 

Sometimes, not having to breathe for survival is a useful skill. 

Crowley is dimly aware that, somewhere along the way, he got a little off-topic. In the end, he only stops because Aziraphale interrupts him. 

“Crowley.” He sounds almost tearful. 

“Hmm?” Crowley turns, and Aziraphale pulls him in, yanks him in, really, to kiss him again, with none of the tremulous caution of the last time; it’s messy and fierce and utterly perfect, and this time Crowley’s brain helpfully kicks into gear, letting him wind an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and kiss back with everything he has. 

Eventually, Aziraphale reluctantly pulls away. 

“I do love you. A great deal. I hope you know that too, my dear. I think perhaps I always have, to some degree or another.” He sighs grimly. “We’re going to be in terrible trouble, aren’t we,” 

“We’re already in trouble, angel,” Crowley points out. 

But perhaps for the first time, he feels a sense of creeping optimism, barely willing to show its face. 

They’re going to get around this. He doesn’t know exactly what they’re going to do yet, but it’s going to be huge. It’s going to be _magnificent._ They’re going to pull it off. Now that he’s been given this, he’ll fight with teeth and claws and anything at his disposal to keep it. He’ll fight dirty for the two of them. Playing fair has never been his department, in any case. 

Look at all those grubby little sods downstairs. I mean, really look at them. Sad bunch of out-of-date amateurs, really. Can’t be arsed to move ahead with the times. Time was that Crowley could give a hundred souls their daily dose of corruption before any of those other wankers had even put their shoes on. They’ve got no imagination, that’s their problem. The angels, too. He and Aziraphale can take them all on, no problem. They’ll come up with a plan. A Grand Plan. 

And maybe they won’t have to dash off to some distant planetary system, after all. 

(Still, best to keep it in the back pocket, just in case.) 

He feels a little drunk, all of a sudden. 

“We’re going to work something out,” he says. “I can promise you that. And then… I’ll take you somewhere. Paris again, Venice, Hay-on-Wye. Anywhere you want; we’ll go there.” 

“Something like what?” 

“Not sure,” he concedes, “not yet. But if we can avert the apocalypse we can deal with the fallout too. How would you like to get one over on them all, one last time?” 

“That’s another thing.” 

“What?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale muses, “For all your talk of not being kind, you’re not exactly aligning yourself with hell any more, are you? Fair’s fair, my dear. I sever my allegiance, you sever yours. And then we’ll stand against them, yes?” 

“You might have a point there,” Crowley admits, and kisses him again. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, pulling back after a while. “I’m sorry. I am. I know I disappointed you, and I thought it was right at the time, that keeping a distance was the better thing for both of us, I thought I had to be loyal to my side, but then…” he sighs, exasperated. “Oh, _sod_ Heaven.” 

Crowley almost laughs. Shushes him instead, stroking his hair. “Angel. I know, I know. It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not, though. I should have chosen you. Chosen our side.” 

“All under the bridge, now,” says Crowley. What he means is: kindly stop talking and kiss me again before I discorporate all over the nice clean floor. 

“They don’t even _like_ me there. I don’t think they ever have, overmuch.” Aziraphale swallows. “I never quite fit in. I did my best, but…” 

As far as Crowley is concerned, this more than anything else firmly backs up his stance _vis a vis_ heaven and taste. 

It also makes him want to _do_ things. Things like liberating a whole library of dusty old first editions. Tap-dancing over consecrated ground. Personally rebuilding whatever long-gone little hole-in-the-wall local restaurant Aziraphale would care to name and taking him for five courses there. At this point he’d even act as a willing assistant and audience combined for those godawful magic tricks. (by all the unholy devils below, what’s _happened_ to him?) 

Not nice. Not kind, he reminds himself. Just needs to get it into the angel’s head that he’s loved, that’s all. 

He’s not sure how to get all this across in words yet, so for the time being he settles for kissing Aziraphale’s mouth, jawline, cheekbone, brow. 

“I always said they had no taste, your lot,” he manages between kisses, murmuring into the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat. “No taste at all.” 

Aziraphale brings his back to eye level. “Not my lot any more,” he reminds him, and draws him in again. 

“This is all very..._human_ of us, really, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says, after some time. 

“S'pose. Does this sort of thing often happen? You know, upstairs?” 

“We’re supposed to be imbued with love for all God’s creatures, and whatnot. But this sort of thing… it’s not generally approved of. Too much of an indulgence, really, like food. Too… selective. Of course, angels have been known to fall in love with humans. There was that dreadful business back in 1998...” he trails off for a second, shaking his head. “But I suspect you and I might be setting a bit of a precedent. An angel and a demon, that’s new.” 

“And you’re all right with that?” 

“My dear, if you think I’m letting you go after all this, I can assure you you’re _quite_ mistaken. I just needed a little time to… come to terms with things, that’s all.” 

“Good. That’s good. Just wondered. ‘Course, the same goes for you.” 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale kisses the corner of his mouth. “Of course, there are other things humans do sometimes. When they’re in love. Some of them.” 

Crowley’s mouth goes dry. 

“Of course, we wouldn’t have to,” Aziraphale continues, “Although I was curious about whether you’d be… interested in the carnal side of things, so to speak.” 

Crowley would like to be able to think of something suave to say at this point. Something slick and elegant, like an old movie actor delivering the final one-liner to the leading lady. 

“Er. Yeah.” He says. “I mean. I’m game if you are.” 

...It’s no use. He’s not bloody Casanova. 

(Met him once, though. Cheeky little bugger.) 

“Have you… before?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Not really. Er. No. Wasn’t really my department. Still, just another pleasure of the flesh, I suppose,” says Crowley, with a certain amount of bravado. “Like dinner at the Ritz, or a fast drive, or a really good Riesling. Or… or chips,” he finishes weakly. 

“But is it one you’d be interested in partaking of? Because this really isn’t something we need to do. I’ll confess to being interested, but I’d be perfectly content not to.” 

“No, I mean, yeah.” Crowley swallows. “I want to. With you. Can’t hurt to give things a shot, anyway.” 

Aziraphale smiles at him. 

“I could miracle us a bed,” Crowley says, remembering his earlier thoughts. “Something fancy.” 

“I’m sure yours will be just fine.” 

* * * 

Aziraphale, as it turns out, is beautiful all over, although Crowley wonders idly whether it's his corporeal form so much as just the fact that it’s Aziraphale inhabiting it. 

He’s also surprisingly dextruous with his hands. 

Things only take a peculiar turn about ten minutes in, when Aziraphale’s legs are wrapped around Crowley’s waist and he’s grinding up against him in that very slow, deliberate way and muttering delectable nonsense in his ear, all _sweet thing_ and _the loveliest_ and _there, now._

Hell loves to talk a big game about how sex belongs to them. It’s bollocks, Crowley realises now. What they’re doing here is probably the least demonic thing he’s ever done. 

That being said, it’s not Heaven’s either. All of that lot can fuck right off. This is theirs. 

He kisses the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s bicep, his shoulder and his collarbone. “Always loved you. Always. Ever since-” his breath hitches “-thing. Garden.” 

He has a sudden image of them living together, their space an odd jumble of gleaming Spartan modernity and crowded old-fashioned coziness in creams and beiges. Crowley’s plants sprawling over bookshelves. Some beautiful contrasted mess of a house. He wants Aziraphale in his space, in every sense; wants to welcome him into the shadowy corners of his mind that he’d never show anyone else. 

He feels himself being pulled down again. Aziraphale surrounds him; he’s being wrapped up in soft velvety heat and he can’t tell… he can’t _quite_ tell where one of them ends and the other... well, the other... 

He suddenly feels disorientated. The world goes fuzzy at the edges and begins to move. Too quickly for him to be able to react in time, he feels himself leaving his own corporeal body and shifting into Aziraphale’s. 

“Hang on a minute…” he says in the wrong voice. His view has suddenly reversed itself, and even more confusingly, he can see himself stretched out over him. 

“Oh…” says the Crowley that isn’t him. 

There’s an uncomfortable pause. 

“Hold on,” he hears in his own voice, “I should be able to…” 

Aziraphale clutches his hand, everything shifts again (it’s worse than being drunk, this) and Crowley finds himself returned to his own lanky body, all present and correct. 

He can feel a slight buzz of feeling from the point of contact. Residual emotions: an odd mixture of relief and uncertainty and exhaustion. And love. Masses of it, warm and heady and golden. Love that’s meant for Crowley. 

It was all over in less than a second, like a fading dream, but just a taste of it leaves Crowley lightheaded. 

He moves to one side and lies down beside Aziraphale, cautiously refraining from touching him for the time being. 

Aziraphale looks thoughtful, and a little stunned. Crowley finds himself wondering what particular little cognitive flashes he’d betrayed himself. 

“That,” Aziraphale murmurs contemplatively after a while, “probably doesn’t happen to the humans.” 

“Shouldn’t have thought so,” Crowley agrees. 

“I think perhaps we just got a little carried away.” 

“Yeah.” Crowley makes a face. “Why do I suddenly want salmon nigiri?” Aziraphale laughs softly and hesitantly holds out his arms. Crowley shifts over to curl against him again. 

“Yeah,” he concedes, feeling the reassuringly solid weight of Aziraphale’s frame beneath him. “Just got overexcited. You all right, though?” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale kisses the top of his head. “Yes, just fine. And, you know, just for the record, it’s certainly something I could tolerate as an occasional side effect. But of course, it’s perfectly fine if you’d prefer not to-” 

“Oh, no. I mean, yeah, I could put up with that, if you could.” Crowley stretches, feeling comfortably in possession of his faculties once again. “Want to give it another go, then?” 

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale turns, kneeling over Crowley, taking both his hands and gently pressing them into the mattress. “Perhaps we could try something a little more… conventional?” 

They manage to stay in their own bodies, this time. To a point, anyway. 

* * * 

Later, Crowley lies with his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s chest, Aziraphale’s fingers stroking through his hair. 

“You’re quite good at that,” says Crowley. 

He feels beautifully wrung out, and more contented than he’s been in a long, long time. They’ll have to do a lot of this, once they’ve taken care of the whole _repercussions_ business. 

Aziraphale is silent for a moment, the movements of his hand in Crowley’s hair steady and thoughtful. 

“You know, my dear,” he says eventually. “This has given me an idea.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading folks; I always appreciate getting comments, please leave one if you’re so inclined.


End file.
